


only one that brings me back

by inlovewithnight



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: BDSM, Cock & Ball Torture, Impact Play, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 19:03:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5260121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jamie is being an impossible little brat. It's Jordie's job to take the edge off for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	only one that brings me back

**Author's Note:**

> There is unsafe BDSM practice here. Don't take kink advice from fanfiction.
> 
> Technically this is kinky gen; it's kink without arousal or orgasms for anybody. Since there is non-sexual dick-touching between brothers, though, overtagging for incest is probably better than undertagging.
> 
> "non-sexual dick-touching" is the name of my band.

Jamie is being an impossible little brat. Usually Jordie tries to step in and take care of him before it gets to that point, but he’s been busy lately, with the new puppy and, well, _playing hockey._ A hot season isn’t just based on the high-scoring top-line guys, after all. Non-top-pairing d-men were bricks in the wall, too.

Okay, maybe they’re both a little tired and cranky. Maybe Jamie isn’t the only one who needs to take the edge off.

Jordie catches him on the way out of the showers on the last night of their road trip. He curves his fingers loosely around Jamie’s wrist, breaking his forward stomp toward his stall. “Hey.”

Jamie scowls at him. “What.”

There’s no reason for him to be this pissy. They won the fucking game. “Cheer up, asshole.”

Jamie rolls his eyes. “I’m tired and I gotta go talk to the press. What do you want?”

Jordie clenches his teeth and reminds himself to keep his voice low. “I was gonna say that you should hang out at home tomorrow.” Jamie stills and his eyes widen a little; Jordie lets him hang on the edge for a minute before he continues. “But maybe you should just hang out in your room tonight.”

Jamie’s eyes get even bigger. Sometimes Jordie really gets what some of the commentators are coming from when they say he has cow eyes. “Tonight?”

“Unless you really need to go out and fuck around some more.” Jordie doesn’t worry about Jamie when he’s out fucking around; he’s not going to run into any trouble he can’t handle. Jordie worries about Jamie when he gets stuck running in circles inside his own head. It’s Jordie’s job to keep that from happening, or break him out of it early if it gets past him.

Jamie licks his lips, glancing toward the locker room proper again. The media’s still waiting. “I gotta show up for one drink, you know?”

Jordie nods and lets go of his arm. “Then you’ll come back?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Jamie nods and hurries away, hitching his towel higher around his waist. Jordie exhales slowly and pushes his hair off his forehead, then goes in search of his own shower. Nobody will want to talk to him tonight. He’s got a little time to think, and plan. He’s going to have to improvise.

Only for Jamie, swear to god. Only for that kid.

**

A few people ask him if he’s coming out with the team, but they don’t push it when he shakes his head and goes up to his room instead of mingling in the lobby. He orders room service and gets undressed, changing into loose sweats and a t-shirt. He eats, drinks a beer, texts with a few friends who watched the game. He keeps one eye on the clock. If Jamie’s behaving himself, he’ll stay out for an hour and a half, maybe two hours. If he decides to be a brat, it’ll be later than that, and Jordie might just text him to forget the whole thing. For brattiness, he needs more time, privacy, and stuff he’s got back home in Dallas.

At the hour and a half mark, though, Jamie texts him. _on my way back. walking so maybe 20 min?_

Jordie breathes in and out slowly, finding his center. _ill see you in 30._

Jamie sends him the 100% emoji, which, what even. Jordie can only roll his eyes and toss the phone aside. He drags his hands through his hair, taking another breath, then gets out of bed and goes to gather up some supplies.

He loves Jamie so goddamn much. Enough to give him what he needs. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself, over and over, every time.

The issue of what he himself, Philip Jordan Benn, _wants_ , that’s… he doesn’t look too closely at that, outside of the moment. Staring into the abyss, and all that crap. It’s better to focus on Jamie. He’s always been good at that.

**

Jamie lets him in and immediately backs up to the bed, sitting down and clasping his hands between his knees like he’s waiting for a bus. Part of Jordie wants to sigh, part of him wants to laugh, but the familiar sweet ugly heat is growing in his stomach, and instead he just looks. He lets his eyes wander over Jamie until the silence grows tense and Jamie starts to shift in place, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. He’s so very much the baby of the family—he’s never actually been in trouble, not in his whole life, but the _maybe_ hangs over his head.

Jordie puts his dopp kit down on the table. “Did you eat?”

Jamie nods. “Yes.”

“How much did you drink?”

Jamie’s brow furrows a little and he licks his lips. “Two whiskeys and, um, a beer.” Jordie raises an eyebrow and Jamie’s eyes dart around the room. “Two beers.”

“I can go right back to my own room if you’re going to fucking lie to me, Jame.”

Jamie doesn’t just squirm this time, he flinches. The heat in Jordie’s stomach twists and clenches. Fuck, it feels good to make Jamie feel bad, when they do this. Make him nervous. Make him _behave_.

“Two whiskeys and two beers.” Jamie nods and glances up at Jordie, hopeful. “I swear.”

“That’s more than you told me you were going to have.”

Jamie’s face falls. “Is it?”

“You said one drink.”

“I’m not drunk, Jordie.” Jamie’s eyes are wide and earnest, his face a little flushed, sweat beaded at his hairline and the corner of his jaw. “I swear.”

Jordie watches him for another moment, waiting until Jamie starts to look uncertain and squirmy again. Knowing he’s the one making Jamie do that—and he’s the only one who can give him the reassurance he needs to stop—is so fucking good. It’s better than anything but winning a game.

“Stand up,” he says finally, and Jamie all but wiggles with relief, quickly getting to his feet and putting his hands behind his back. He bows his head, trying to watch Jordie without being obvious about it, and Jordie takes a deliberate step toward him.

Jamie bounces on his toes, ridiculously eager, and Jordie gives in to impulse and slaps his face. The crack of flesh is startlingly loud in the cool air, and Jamie rocks back so hard he loses his balance, catching himself on the bed with one hand.

“Stand up,” Jordie repeats, snapping his fingers three times, rapidly. “Stand _up_ , Jamie.”

Jamie does as he’s told, catching his breath audibly. “Sorry,” he says, hitting the vowel harder than the American way, like he’s regressing to a younger self, recovering the parts of his voice that have blurred in Texas.

“If you’re sorry, don’t do it,” Jordie reminds him. “Don’t mess up and you won’t have anything to be sorry about.”

“I know. I know.” Jamie rocks back and forth but doesn’t bounce, so Jordie allows it. He turns back to the table, where his bag is waiting, and reaches in for the first thing he needs.

Jamie makes a little noise when Jordie pulls out the roll of stick tape. "I know, bud," Jordie says. "If you could keep your shit together until we got home, I've got all the nice stuff. But we're here and we have to make do."

"Not on my dick this time," Jamie says, his voice edging toward a whine. "It hurt so much coming off last time."

Jordie sighs, drops the tape, slaps Jamie's face again. "You take what you're given. You know better."

"Sorry. Sorry." Jamie closes his eyes and tips his head back. His throat is all pretty and bare and the light hits his face just right to make the red handprints stand out.

"Undress," Jordie prompts, and Jamie scrambles to obey, opening the fly of his suit pants. Jordie finds the end of the tape and loosens it, mentally running through the best way to restrain Jamie with the tape to hurt but not damage. Tape isn't the best choice in the first place, but fuck it. They'll make do.

Jamie strips to his briefs and waits for instructions, rubbing his hands on his thighs. Jordie looks him over, noting the major bruises and the familiar scars, taking his time until Jamie starts squirming again.

"Hands behind your back," he says finally. When Jamie obeys, he wraps the tape around his wrists a few times, a little looser than he wants to. Gotta be careful with the captain's hands.

Jamie doesn't give a shit about blood flow to his hands right now. Jamie just wants. And Jordie is going to give it to him. He's going to hurt him as much as he wants, and they're both going to love it.

He keeps wrapping the tape upwards from Jamie's wrists, creating a cuff all the way to his elbows. Jamie makes little inadvertent noises, eager and restless. Jordie smacks him after each one, a solid blow to the meaty parts of Jamie's ass, thighs, upper arms.

"You're so bad, Jamie." He can't even control his voice; it's all low and rough and throaty in a way he could never do on purpose if he tried. "Just can't behave yourself at all, can you?"

Jamie shakes his head. "I can't. I want to but I can't."

"I don't think you try very hard." Jordie breaks off the tape and tosses it back on the table, then steps back to study Jamie again. So much of this is making Jamie wait, making him stew in his emotions and uncertainty, reveling in his discomfort. Jordie is the only one who can offer him any relief. He gets the on-off switch. He decides when Jamie hurts and when he doesn't, while they play.

Power feels good. No surprise there.

He reaches out and catches Jamie by the hair, twisting his fingers in the longer strands, still sticky and heavy with gel. He pulls Jamie's head back, hard enough that his whole body has to arch to keep his balance. "I'm going to hurt your dick," he says quietly, and Jamie's body jerks. "Tell me right now if that's not okay."

Jamie doesn't say anything, doesn't move. Jordie silently counts to ten, then lets go of him and goes back to the table.

When he pulls out the IcyHot, Jamie whimpers again. "You remember last time, huh?" Jordie doesn't have any gloves, so he uses the complimentary shower cap from the bathroom to wrap his hand. It looks stupid, but Jamie's beyond caring about that right now. His face is twisted up in anticipation of how much it's going to hurt, his stomach muscles are tight and trembling, and Jordie has never seen anything prettier than the fear in his eyes.

He reaches into Jamie's briefs with his bare hand and pulls Jamie's dick up and over the waistband. His touch is clinical, not sexual; an outsider might beg to differ, but neither of them gets off on this. Jamie is soft under his hand. It's a different kind of satisfaction.

He squeezes some IcyHot onto his wrapped fingers and coats Jamie's skin with it, listening for the hiss of indrawn breath as the chemicals absorb through the delicate skin. The first gasp, a few rough breaths, and then, finally, Jamie cries out. He suppresses the sound into a raw moan as fast as he can, but Jordie's stomach turns over with another wave of fierce, hot joy. He did that. It's all his.

He strips the plastic off and drops it on the table, then moves back to Jamie's side and pulls his hair again, holding him still in precarious balance while his body fights the pain. He keeps jerking at his bound arms, like there's any chance of getting free. He's struggling, he's hurting, tears are running down his pretty flushed cheeks, and there's nothing he can do.

Jordie did that. He owns it. And it looks so good on Jamie, all that hurt.

He lets Jamie breathe for a moment, re-centering himself, then slides his hand to a deep bruise on Jamie’s thigh and digs his fingers in as hard as he can. Jamie yelps, his whole body jerking, and Jordie holds on, gripping as tightly as he can until Jamie sags into the pressure, not able to fight anymore.

“Okay?” Jordie prompts, letting go and shaking out his hand. Jamie nods, blinking at fresh tears, and Jordie reaches out to brush them away. “Can you take some more, bud? Or do you need to tap out now?”

Jamie shakes his head, swaying toward Jordie until he catches him and holds him up. “Not done.”

“Okay.” Jordie helps him find his balance again and then runs his hands up and down Jamie’s biceps. On one side he kept the tape low enough that he can find the crease at the inside of Jamie’s elbow, where muscles and tendons and nerves all gather up and form a nice little pressure point. He digs his thumb in hard, abruptly, making Jamie yelp again and fall against him.

He _writhes_ , twisting around to stay on his feet and try to escape the pain, but Jordie’s got him and he can’t go anywhere. Jordie keeps pressing, watching Jamie’s face from so close, looking for the fine line between when he _could_ stop and when he _must_ stop. That’s the sweet spot for him—easing off because he _wants_ , not because he has to. 

It’s all his.

“I’m gonna get the thing,” he says quietly. Jamie shudders all over and moans. “I know, you hate it. But you kinda love it, too.”

“Yeah.” Jamie’s voice is half a sob. “I hate it so much. But I want you to do it.”

“Okay. Stand up on your own, c’mon. Stand here.” 

Once Jamie is settled on his feet again, Jordie goes back to his bag. The thing is just—it’s just a pen, honestly. A pen with a fat metal barrel, and he broke the rounded butt end off so it goes flat instead. It’s like the barrel of a gun, kind of, but that isn’t what it stands in for when he uses it with Jamie. He can’t remember the real name of the thing, it’s a self-defense whatever. Shaped just about like this. It could be used to hit, or stab, or strengthen a punch.

Or to pinch like fucking hell.

Jamie is breathing fast with anticipation, hiccupy little gulps of air. “Slow down,” Jordie tells him, running his thumb over the open end of the pen barrel. “Don’t pass out on me, Jamie.”

“It’s going to _hurt_.” 

“Yeah, it is. You gotta breathe through it.” Jamie closes his eyes and after a moment his breathing steadies. Jordie smiles a little, watching his brother’s scrunched-up face. “Good boy.”

Jamie looks up at that, his eyes wide and warm and eager. God, he loves any little bit of praise. Jordie smiles back at him, then places the end of the pen against Jamie’s chest, catches a thick fold of skin between the metal and his thumb, and pinches as hard as he can.

Jamie _yells_ , this time, and Jordie has to stop to step away from him and walk into the bathroom. He comes back with a washcloth, rolls it into a long tube, and holds it out to Jamie, a warning look on his face. Jamie meekly, obediently opens his mouth and takes it, setting his teeth against the terrycloth.

“You know better.” Jordie shakes his head and moves to catch and pinch another bit of skin, this time from Jamie’s inner thigh. He works his way down toward Jamie’s knee, one pinch at a time, leaving behind a line of deep red marks that will be bruised black by morning. Every one earns a helpless whine from Jamie, the sound getting more breathless and ragged each time, until he finally cracks, spits out the towel, and says “S-stop. Jordie. Stop.”

Jordie straightens up, rolling the pen in his palm and cupping Jamie’s jaw in his other hand. Jamie’s face is deep red, and so wet with tears they’re dripping from his chin. “Your brain all better, bud?”

Jamie leans into his hand, sagging forward until Jordie has to drop the pen and slip his arm around Jamie’s waist to prop him up. 

“One more,” Jamie mumbles, blinking slowly. “Just… just one.”

Jordie nods and lets his fingers slip down to Jamie’s throat, feeling his pulse race under the skin. “Sharp or hard?”

Jamie has to think for a minute, blinking again, and Jordie lets him take his time. It’s good, Jamie leaning on him like this, helpless and broken-down but still so trusting. Only Jordie gets to see him like this; only Jordie gets to _do_ this. All his. 

“Hard,” Jamie says finally, licking his lips. Spit runs down from one corner, chasing the tears down his jawline. Poor fucked-up mess of a kid. Jordie loves him so much. “One more.”

“Just for me, right, bud? You want to give me one more.”

Jamie nods, relief flickering across his features. Jordie smiles, because he gets it. He likes that he _gets_ Jamie, too. They’ve always been like this.

Jordie eases Jamie back onto his feet, waits for him to catch his balance again, then moves his hand to Jamie’s side, the smooth line of flesh below his ribs. He finds the last rib, the floating rib, with his thumb and presses lightly at it, enough to orient the rest of his hand to Jamie’s body and be sure he isn’t going to hit anything that will break. Then he slides his thumb down clear of it, stills himself for a breath, and rolls his fingers toward his palm.

It seems like a stupid thing, like it shouldn’t hurt; the guy who showed him how to do it described it as grabbing hold of the love handles. But instead of pinching, you curved your hand and _squeezed_. From the way Jamie twisted and cried out, muffling the sound against Jordie’s shoulder, it hurt like absolute murder.

Jordie held it for a slow count of five, then let go, wrapping his arms around Jamie and letting him fall forward again. “Okay. Okay. All done now. You did so good, Jamie. So fucking good. I’m proud of you.”

Jamie is crying again, tears running down his face steadily, and Jordie holds him until he breathes again, gasping and choking a little. “Easy,” Jordie murmurs. “Easy. You’re okay. Okay. Let’s get you sitting down.”

He’s pliant and helpless, basically a rag doll that Jordie can steer back to the bed and sit down on the edge of the mattress. Once Jordie’s sure he’s steady enough not to fall over, he goes back to the table and gets the scissors out of his dopp kit. 

Getting the tape off is tricky and means adding more pain on top of where Jamie’s already overstimulated and at the edge, so he cuts down the center of the cuff, first, opening up the gap between Jamie’s arms. The tape is still clinging to his skin, but Jordie can guide his arms around to the front of his body, checking that they move smoothly and without making Jamie wince or whimper any more than makes sense for working out stiffness.

Jamie stares up at him, bleary-eyed and exhausted, the flush slowly fading from his face. Jordie hums softly, carefully rubbing each of Jamie’s hands between his own, making sure all the fingers move right and the wrists flex and nothing is numb. He asks soft questions and decodes Jamie’s mumbled answers when he can, asks him to nod or shake his head when he can’t. Jamie docile and helpless in his hands is good, now; it’s how he transitions back out of doing this, too. They both need to walk back out together, with Jordie leading the way.

The stick tape is going to get exceptionally disgusting if he leaves it on overnight, but in the morning he can get Jamie in the shower and use soap and water to help peel it off. And Jamie won’t be quite so raw-nerved and endorphin-stupid. Good enough.

“Lie down, bud,” he says, and Jamie obediently scoots and shifts into the bed, burying his face in the pillow.

Jordie sits down next to him and strokes his hair slowly. “I gotta go back to my room,” he says quietly, and Jamie makes a choked noise of protest. “I’ll stay til you’re asleep. And I’ll be back in the morning. You know I won’t leave you alone for too long.”

Jamie nods slightly, his eyes opening for a moment and tracking up Jordie’s arm to his face. “Thanks,” he whispers.

“Don’t thank me.” Jordie pets him some more, his fingers lingering at Jamie’s temple for a moment. He knows where all the places are on the body where someone can really, really get hurt. It was just something that got picked up along the way in hockey. All the places a puck or a stick or a swinging fist could break.

Not on his watch, though. Not to Jamie.

“Go to sleep,” he says, and in a series of slow, deep breaths, Jamie does.

Jordie did this, he owns it. This is his.

**Author's Note:**

> The thing Jordie is mocking up with the pen is a kubotan. 
> 
> Originally started for a sinbin prompt about BDSM from the dom's POV/what a dom gets out of a scene.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Only One That Brings Me Back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8146024) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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